Far and Away
by GreenGirl47
Summary: Spike. Anya. Traveling. Arguing. Sex. Angst. Ambivalence. Fun. Violence. Emotion. More sex. A little more angst. New characters. All rolled into one shiny WIP for your reading pleasure. (S/Ay, sequel to 'Someone Who Understands). R & R, baby!
1. Restless

A/N: This is the companion/continuation fic to my other story 'Someone Who Understands'. I could have just continued 'SWU' instead of starting a whole new fic, but I wanted to pull a kind of tabula rasa (hehe) so I could start over with some things. First of all, I wanted to change tenses. Secondly, the characterizations in 'SWU' were sort of weak-- I have the tendency to romanticize and water down my characters. Unfortunately, this is a mistake that becomes *especially* apparent when writing Spike and Anya, so I was kind of unhappy with how they turned out in the other fic. Hopefully this time around I won't be so God damn sentimental and I'll be able to write a good quality story. So please let me know how my characterizations are doing! Also, if you don't feel like reading all ten chapters of 'Someone Who Understands', just read the last two and you'll get the setup for this fic. Thanks and enjoy :O)  
  
  
Disclaimer: You know the drill. Joss, ME, Fox, all them people. Lucky bastards.  
  
Distribution: Someone Who Understands (http://spankya.homestead.com) and Too Hot (http://toohot.homestead.com) if Emily wants it. Anyone else is free to take it, just try and let me know so I can visit it :O) iNDiECHiCK5@aol.com  
  
  
  
  
There are times when Spike hates the fact that he's nocturnal. Take *now* for example: his body is buzzing and crackling with predatory energy, but if he were anymore tired mentally, he thinks he'd bloody well be in a coma. He's exhausted from driving two full days and a night straight out of Sunnydale, stopping only for food and to refill the gas tank. He doesn't know what made him distance himself so far from the Hellmouth before taking a break; he doesn't want to feel like he's running away. Staying and fighting was a much more appealing option than leaving, but he realizes that the fight would have ended in death for *someone*. He would have had to leave anyway. He begrudgingly accepts that it's probably better this way-- at least he's got Anya with him.  
  
He stops pacing for a moment and stands, watching her as she sleeps in the queen-sized bed that takes up most of their $30 per-night motel room. She's got the ratty gray-and-slate comforter draped loosely over her body, her bare legs hanging out the bottom. Her hair's pulled back in a messy ponytail and her face is buried in the pillow. Spike wishes she'd wake up so he'd have some company to bide the night with; he's getting increasingly frustrated with his inability to sleep and growing equally bored. He thinks briefly about waking her himself but dismisses that thought-- she was so tired when they checked into the Windcrest Township Motel ("Looks more like the *Incest* Township Motel," she'd commented as they pulled into the pothole-laden parking lot) that she didn't even bother getting undressed before she collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep. He'd taken her jeans off at one point so she wouldnt get marks on her stomach from the waistband, hoping that maybe she'd wake up and find him undressing her and want to have sex, but no such luck. It's been five hours and she still has yet to even stir.   
  
He wonders idly why she's so drained when *he's* the one who's done all the driving. She's slept enough in the car-- albeit sitting up and for twenty minutes at a time-- but still, it's more sleep than *he'*s gotten. And now here she is, swathed in the depths of slumber, while he watches half-enviously, half-tenderly, exhausted beyond words. It's not fair.  
  
He shakes his head. Of course it's fair. Leaving was harder for her than it was for him. The only thing that could have kept him there was Buffy, and, though he still wants her, his love for her isn't strong enough anymore to bind and gag him. He's free to get up and go whenever he pleases.   
  
Anya, however, has left behind her entire life. Her shop, her friends, her only connections to the man she was going to marry. The first man she truly loved. And that's something.  
  
To love and be loved in return is something Spike hasn't experienced in a long time. He's used to a reciprocation of caring and lust and friendship by now, but that deep, penetrating love has yet to come for him and his demon girl. He's waiting for it -- apprehensively, afraid it'll knock him over when it hits him -- but waiting for it all the same. He's missed it.  
  
  
  
As these thoughts seep back into his subconscious and leave him by himself, Spike resumes his restless pacing. He counts his steps as he goes; it takes just nine to cross the room from the door to the far wall and back again. "This room isn't even *worth* thirty dollars," he mutters to himself. "Queen-sized bed, nightstand, and lamp, all of which was probably bought at the Salvation Army for fifteen dollars for the lot. Bloody rip-off, it is."  
  
He peers into the tiny, closet-sized bathroom as he passes it, noting disgustedly that the toilet in his *crypt* is in better condition even after being used by demons and God knows what other kinds of creatures. He's surprised they even *have* indoor plumbing here.   
  
'This is definitely a one-night stop,' he thinks.  
  
  
  
It's another 189 steps before Spike is distracted from his pacing again. Anya's beginning -- finally -- to move around in the bed. She rolls over and lets out a quiet yawn, then reaches up to her face and rubs her eyes with the back of her hand. After a moment or two she sits up, dazed, and squints through the pasty orange lamplight. "Spike?" she says, her tired inflections turning his name into a question.  
"Anya. Welcome back to the world of the living," he deadpans. He walks to the bed and sits down on the edge of the uncomfortably flat mattress.  
"What time is it?" She pushes the comforter away and feels the shock of cold air on her legs. "And what happened to my pants?"  
"It's about three-thirty in the morning. And I took them off," he answers.  
She frowns. "Why? Did we have sex? Because if we did I don't remember it."  
"No," he tells her. "You looked uncomfortable. Can't get a good night's sleep in your clothes."  
She smiles. "Well thank you for your consideration."  
He shrugs. "Least I could do, seeing as you haven't slept lying down in two days."  
"You haven't slept in two days, period," she reminds him. "What have you been doing this whole time?"  
He leans back against the cracked headboard and sighs. "Trying to keep from trashing the bloody room. I'm crawling out of my skin with energy and I've never been more tired in my entire existence, life *or* death. I need to sleep."  
Anya nods and rests her hand on his thigh. "I'd offer to help you get rid of that energy-- that's suggestion, by the way-- but I think I'm still too tired to give you a proper orgasm."  
He closes his eyes and smiles. "Wanna give it a try anyway?"  
  
He's only half-serious and she knows it, but she feels bad that he's so wound up. She slides her hand up his leg to his fly and unzips it. He's already hard.  
  
Spike knows the gentlemanly thing to do would be to protest and tell her he was just kidding. She's so fresh form sleep that she's still groggy, for God's sake, and here he is asking her for sex.   
  
But Anya's mouth is on him already, hot and engulfing and moving lower with each breath. Her lips reach their destination and surround him, and all he can manage to choke out is "Uhhhhhmmmmm..." Her tongue goes to work, and soon he's clutching at her hair with one hand and at the pillow with the other. "Anya," he gasps. "I'm gonna... I'm... I'm..." She comprehends and takes her mouth away, then spits on her palm and wraps her hand around him, finishing the job with a few firm strokes.   
  
She was wrong. She wasn't too tired to give him a proper orgasm. He comes with a loud moan into her hands, arching back into the headboard and digging his fingers into the mattress. "Thanks," he breathes. "That was a big help."   
She smiles as she gets up to go to the bathroom and wash off. "Anytime," she says, then pauses. "Well, not *anytime*. Whenever I deem it appropriate."  
He nods absently, returning her smile. "'Course."  
  
  
  
When Anya returns from the bathroom, Spike's got his clothes off and he's stretched out beneath the blankets. She flicks the lamp off and climbs in next to him. "Are you going to be able to get to sleep now?" she asks.  
"I think so," he replies.  
"Good," she says. "Because I'm about to fall asleep again and I don't think I'd be able to help you out anymore."  
He laughs softly. "Right, then. Good night, Anya."  
"Night, Spike."  
  
*************************************  
  
TBC 


	2. Just Say No

A/N: Hope we get a few more people reading *this* time around :OI It's gonna get good, believe you me; just stick it out while I muck through the exposition.  
  
Dedication: This chapter is to Rainyday88, thank you so much for your continued support! I can't tell you how much it means to me :O)  
  
  
  
  
Anya and Spike spend most of the day in bed catching up on sleep and other activities that have been neglected over the past two days. It's not until nearly four thirty in the afternoon that they finally peel themselves off the mattress and get ready to head back out on the road. Anya gets up from the bed and wraps herself in a sheet, leaving Spike naked on top of the comforter. He groans as the cold air hits him.  
  
"Where're you going, luv?"  
  
"To take a shower," she replies. "We're going to have to leave soon, and I'm not spending another two days in the car without practicing some basic hygiene. I feel like a giant sweaty foot."  
  
"Interesting analogy."  
  
"Thank you. Now you get up, too. If we're not gone by six they'll charge us for another night. I don't know if we have enough cash for that."  
  
He frowns. "Haven't you called Tara yet to let her know where to deposit your money?"  
  
She nods. "Yes, but have you seen any banks around here? No. We're in the middle of East Bumfuck. I haven't even seen a *cow* since yesterday morning."  
  
He gives her an amused look, then holds his hand out to her. She takes it and he pulls her back down on top of him, wrapping his arms around her waist so she can't wiggle away. "Hey," he says. "I'm sorry we have to be here."  
  
She raises an eyebrow. "It's not your fault. It's not like you made all that unpleasant stuff happen."  
  
He shrugs. "I know, but I'm... sorry. Things would be better if we hadn't had to leave."  
  
"They would," she agrees, not in the mood to dwell. "But we can't do anything about it now. No use crying over spilt milk, you know. We'll just have to make the best of this little euphemism of a trip we're on; see the sights, paint the town red, do the deed, and all those other curious expressions I don't understand. Now really, kiss me and let's get up. We have an hour and a half."  
  
****************  
  
Spike leaves Anya to gather up the few things they brought with them into the motel while he goes to the office to check out.   
  
The office is a room just a tiny bit bigger than their motel room, and only two doors down from it. The awning over the entrance is frayed and weather-beaten, and Spike is careful to avoid the spots of fading sunlight penetrating the weak material. An annoyingly tinny bell clatters above the door as he pushes it open and enters. He's greeted by the smell of stale smoke and dead plants, and a greasy-haired, college-aged clerk behind the desk wearing an impish expression and a nametag that reads "Louis".  
  
Spike ambles up to the desk and slaps the key down. "Room 5," he says.  
  
Louis looks blankly at the key, then at Spike, and asks, "What's wrong with it?"  
  
Spike raises an eyebrow, effectively communicating the fact that already he thinks this guy is a moron. "Nothing," he annunciates. "I want to *check out*."  
  
The blank stare remains for a second before Louis slides the key off the desk and hangs it on a pegboard under a piece of masking tape with "6" haphazardly scrawled on it. "All set, man."  
  
Spike fixes the seemingly retarded clerk with a harsh stare. "Deposit?"  
  
Louis nods. "Yeah, me too."  
  
This totally unrelated comment throws Spike off for a moment. "No," he says. His temper is starting to wear thin. "I need my bloody deposit. Twenty dollars."  
  
"Ohhhh. Gotcha." Louis fumbles with the cash register until the drawer opens, then takes out two tens and hands them to Spike.  
  
"Nice to see you can count," Spike muses, and pockets the money. "Now do you have any maps? You know, big pieces of paper with the names of roads written on them?"  
  
"Dude, I know what a map is," Louis tells him indignantly.  
  
"Good for you. Do you have any?"  
  
Louis reaches under the counter and produces a brochure-format one. "Two bucks."  
  
Before he hands him the money, Spike asks, "How about smokes?"  
  
The clerk's mouth turns up in a goofy grin. "I knew it, man!" he exclaims. "Ya just seemed like the type. Wait here, I'll be right back." Louis disappears into the back room for several seconds, then emerges with a small baggie. "Here ya go."  
  
Spike picks the baggie up and examines the contents. In place of the cigarettes he expected to find are six joints, all hand-rolled. He puts the baggie back down and glares at Louis. "I meant cigarettes, you bloody pillock, not marijuana! I can't use these."  
  
His grin broadens. "'Course ya can! Everyone can use a little Mary J. Ya smoke it like a cigarette, only ya hold the smoke in your lungs longer. It'll be good for ya, help ya relax."  
  
"No, *Louis*, it really won't," Spike says, overpronouncing his name. "Marijuana has no effect on me."  
  
"Ooooh. You're into the hardcore stuff, huh? Well, I don't have any of that, but I know a guy down the street ya could get some from."  
  
Spike snorts and shakes his head, about to lose it. "You don't seem to understand," he hisses. "No drugs have any sort of effect on me. And do you want to know why?"  
  
Louis shrugs. "Okay."  
  
Spike looks down at the ground for a second, then back up at Louis.  
  
In full game face.   
  
"What the fuck?!?!" the clerk yells, lunging backwards into the wall. "What the hell are you?!?!"  
  
"I'm dead. Drugs don't do anything to dead people," Spike tells him, sneering threateningly. "But dead people can do a lot of damage to idiot desk clerks on drugs. So what I'd *really* like right now is a pack of cigarettes so I can go get my lady friend and get out of here. Do you think you can handle that?"  
  
Shaking, Louis nods and reaches into the front pocket of his flannel shirt, then throws a pack across the counter to Spike. "H-here! And t-take the m-map, too."  
  
Spike takes the goods and then shakes his head, his human features sliding back into place. He gives Louis a big smile. "Thank you. You've been ever so helpful."  
  
****************  
  
Anya and Spike leave the motel in a hurry. They throw their bags into the car and take off, heading eastbound on the desolate stretch of highway that runs through Windcrest Township. Anya is silent, trying to decide whether she's angry at Spike for going all vampy on the clerk or amused at his short-fused antics. Either way, her giddy orgasmic energy has subsided now that they're back on the road.  
  
Spike glances over at her, she feels his eyes on her but doesn't move. "Whatsa matter, luv?"  
  
She shrugs. "I'm just not particularly looking forward to another X number of days in the car. It gets very boring very quickly. No offense."  
  
"None taken," he says. "Doesn't matter, anyway, we'll stop again tomorrow night. I'm not too keen on taking another two days to the next break either."  
  
"Can we stop other places, too?" she asks, a hint of sarcasm tinging her voice. "Like, say, a restaurant? Or maybe some cliched tourist attraction? Maybe we could even pick up a hitchiker or two."  
  
Spike rolls his eyes. "Sure. Next person we come to who needs a ride can bum one off of us. Provided they're not carrying a machete or a stake."  
  
Anya smiles, her mood lifting slightly. "It's a plan then." She pauses. "Wait... is that return sarcasm?"  
  
Spike laughs. "That's for *you* to decide, sweetheart."  
  
****************  
  
TBC... 


	3. Nagging Concerns

A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed, I hope you're all back for round three! I can't wait for this fic to take off; I have some *kick-ass* ideas...  
  
Disclaimer: Song lyrics used are (in order of appearance): "Evaporated" by Ben Folds Five, "How's It Gonna Be?" by Third Eye Blind, "Only Time" by Enya, "Love Lift Us Up" by Joe Cocker and Jennifer Rush, "Santeria" by Sublime, and "Yellow"by Coldplay.  
  
  
  
  
  
"I'm sure back home they think I've lost my mind ... I'm only pretty sure that I can't take anymore ... Who can say where the road goes ... All we have is here and now ... When it's love you don't leave, my soul will have to wait ... Did you know for you I'd bleed myself dry? ..."  
  
"Anya! Would you leave the radio alone for five bloody seconds?"  
  
Anya shoots Spike a sulky look and leans back in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest. "*Sor*-ry," she says. "I was only trying to occupy myself. I should have stolen the magazines from our motel room so I'd have something to read."  
  
"We'll stop off at the next exit. Then you can steal anything you want from wherever we go."  
  
"You've been saying that for three hours now," she tells him. "Well, not the stealing part, but the part about stopping. How can I be sure we're *really* going to stop this time?"  
  
He looks over at her, half amused by her flaring obdurance. "Because, *darling*, I'm about ready for a meal and a quick stretch myself."  
  
She glares at him. "Oh, how considerate of you, *honey*. I see we're on male chauvenist time."  
  
He glares back. "You got that right. *Pet*."  
  
"Wonderful. Would you like me to lick your shoes clean for you? *Sweetie*."  
  
"You can lick more than that. *Dear*."  
  
"Jerk!" she exclaims.  
  
"Whore," he retorts.  
  
"Prick!" she shoots back.  
  
"Tease," he tosses at her.  
  
"Asshole!"  
  
"Bitch!"  
  
"Brit!"  
  
"Fu-- *Brit*?"  
  
Her scowl deepens, and for a moment he wonders if she's going to smack him. But instead of getting angry, her face breaks into an abashed smile, and the tension evaporates like water on a hotplate. "That was a stupid one."  
  
He lets out a chuckle. "It certainly was."  
  
She giggles too. "Yeah."  
  
They catch each others' eye and start laughing again, and soon they're engulfed in hysteria, the kind of laughing that is that much too loud and goes on for much too long. Tears run down their faces as they clutch aching abs, releasing all their pent-up frustration and irritation.  
  
Spike pulls the car over to the side of the road, blinded by laughter and not exactly in the mood to crash the DeSoto.  
  
"Bloody hell," he gasps. "Haven't laughed like that in... ever."  
  
Anya cracks her jaw. "Me neither! That was sorely needed."  
  
He nods in agreement. "Things were getting a bit heavy, weren't they now?"  
  
"Oh, yes. We could have ended up beating the hell out of each other."  
  
"Yeah," he says, smirking. "That or *screwing* the hell out of each other."   
  
Anya considers this a moment. "That could have been fun, too. I'll keep it in mind for next time we get all snappy and unpleasant."   
  
"Please do," he says, taking the car out of park and getting back on the highway. "But don't even think about touching the radio."  
  
Anya pulls her hand back and gives him a faux-sheepish look. "Yes, dear."  
  
  
**************************  
  
  
The diner they choose to eat in is pretty nice, considering it's one of those obnoxiously flourescent 24-hours-a-day joints. It's a decent-sized place for an off-ramp diner, with the standard bare-bush landscaping and wood siding. They park the car right under the buzzing red letters that haphazardly spell out "Big Mama's Place", walk into the nearly-empty restaurant, and take a seat in a booth near the back.   
  
"Well. At least this is higher quality than the Incest Inn," Anya comments, looking around.  
  
"Let's not jump to conclusions until we've seen the food, luv." Spike inhales deeply. "Don't smell any rodents of any type, though. Good sign."  
  
Anya wrinkles her nose. "Ew. Let's leave rodents out of the pre-meal conversation, please."  
  
Spike shrugs. "Fine by me. Although they *are* quite filling when you want a light snack."  
  
"That's disgusting."  
  
He grins and continues. "They squirm a bit at first, but once you break the spine it's like eating a nice, warm jelly donut. Mice are a tad crunchy, like popcorn, and rats are more stringy, while gerbils tend to be on the chewy side. Always preferred a fat, juicy hamster, myself..."  
  
Anya reaches up to her neck and strokes her pendant. "Keep talking, Spike, and you'll *be* one."  
  
He grins at her. "You wouldn't."   
  
Her eyebrows go up. "Oh wouldn't I?"  
  
"No, you wouldn't. You *couldn't*."  
  
"Oh couldn't I?"  
  
He frowns mockingly. "There an echo in here?"  
  
"Shut up," she says. "You don't believe me, try me. Wish for something."  
  
He gives her a skeptical look. "Like what?"  
  
"Anything. Wish for one of your friggen hamsters for all I care. Just wish for something."  
  
He thinks a moment. "All right, then," he says. "I wish a waiter would appear with a dozen hot wings and a bottle of beer. And whatever *you* wanted to eat."  
  
Anya's pendant begins to emmit a soft chartreuse glow. Her veins enlarge and her skin tints a light shade of lavender as her eyes grow round. Spike can feel the power radiating off her body in intense waves; it surpasses his by unmeasurable amounts.  
  
"Done," she annunciates, voice deep and husky.   
  
Anya slips back into human form and glances down as a young man in a black international male shirt and waist-apron appears next to their table with a basket of wings, a bottle of Coors, and a grilled-cheese sandwich.  
  
"Here you go," he says, setting the food down on the table. "Enjoy your meal."  
  
"Thank you," Anya replies. "We will."  
  
Spike grins at her as the waiter walks away. "Well done, luv. That's a very useful trick."  
  
She shrugs. "Takes the unbearable waiting right out of the late-night dining experience. And also teaches you a valuble lesson."  
  
"What's that?" he asks through a mouthful of chicken.  
  
"Don't question my power."  
  
He laughs. "Lesson learned. Now you eat up, *you* were the one bitching about wanting to stop."  
  
She rolls her eyes and picks up her sandwich, taking a small bite.  
  
"Good?" he inquires.  
  
"Good," she tells him.  
  
"Good."  
  
But she's lying. The food is like cardboard in her mouth, bland and unpleasant. Her insides feel uneasy and upset, like when you've broken rules and you're sure everyone else realizes it. She knows her powers aren't supposed to be used for trivial things like this; she's a vengeance demon, not a genie. 'Don't worry,' she tells herself. 'Things will pick up again once we've settled somewhere and I can find some nice scorned women to make proper wishes. Then no more worrying over silly things like this. Just forget all about it.'  
  
It's hard to forget, though, what the punishments for idle vengeance demons look like.  
  
  
***************************  
  
  
Spike knows something is bothering Anya. She went all quiet after the food arrived at their table and she hasn't really gotten back to anywhere near full throttle yet. He thought at first that she was just tired, but it's been nearly twenty minutes since they left the restaurant and he has yet to see her yawn or show any signs of fatigue.  
  
He glances over at her, bathed in the pulsing orange from the rapidly passing streetlights. She's got her legs up on the dashboard and her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her eyes are closed, but he can tell she's not asleep; her heart is beating too quickly.   
  
"Ahn," he says. "You okay?"  
  
"Yeah," she replies, not moving. "I'm just tired."  
  
"Don't lie to me," he tells her.  
  
"I'm not."  
  
"Yes you are. Your body isn't trying to relax, I can hear it going a million bloody miles an hour. What's wrong?"  
  
"Nothing's wrong. My mind is tired."  
  
"What are you thinking about?"  
  
She shrugs, still not opening her eyes. "It doesn't matter. I don't feel like talking."  
  
"Why not? You always feel like talking."  
  
"I don't right now. Enjoy the silence."  
  
He furrows his brow concernedly. "Hey. Look at me."  
  
She obeys, turns her head and opens her eyes. "What?"  
  
"Tell me what's wrong."  
  
His expression is so sincere she wants to cry. Instead, she shakes her head. "It really is nothing. Just a late-night low. I'll get over it soon enough."  
  
He sighs. "All right. But don't go all depressed on me, okay?"  
  
"Don't worry." She kisses him on the lips for reassurance. "I won't."  
  
'As long as I don't reach the maximum number of sans-vengeance days,' she adds mentally. 'But then again, I don't believe there would be enough of me left to be depressed.'   
  
*******************  
  
TBC... 


	4. Pit Stop

A/N: I just wanna apologize if the fic seems schizo at all; this is only my second long-term, many-chaptered project and I have so many ideas I'm trying to layer and piece together. I'm not sure I'm introducing ideas and foreshadowing as subtly as I want to, so any constructive criticism would be appreciated. Also, I've been trying to make the chaps longer but to no avail. My muse has a short attention span. (Anyone know if they sell Ritalin for mystical types?) Oh, and this chap should probably be NC-17 for some dirty talk and naughty fun, but since they don't allow those anymore ::coughprudebastardscough:: we'll just hafta slap an R on it and call it a day ;O) .  
  
  
  
  
  
By the time the sun rises Anya has managed to push most of her concern to the back of her mind via a few hours of dreamless sleep. She climbed into the backseat sometime around two and fell asleep about an hour later; but it hadn't come easily. Between misusing her powers-- albeit harmlessly-- and being able to feel Spike's unease at her mood, she'd had a hard time settling down. But a little bit of black, mind-clearing slumber has helped her to bury her worries beneath the surface of her conscious.   
  
For now at least.  
  
She wakes in the backseat of the car, wrapped tightly in a fleece blanket. It's still dark inside because of the blacked-out windows, but she can see the sun shining through cracks in the paint. Stretching, she sits up and lets the blanket fall to the floor.  
  
"Morning," she says to Spike, being careful to use her normal cheerful tones. She leans between the seats and plants a kiss on his cheek.  
  
"Morning," he replies, pulling her up into the passenger seat. "Feeling better?"  
  
"Oh, yes. I just needed a little more sleep."  
  
"Good. Just as long as it's not PMS or anything of the like, I think I can handle it."  
  
She smiles. "Then I guess you really don't have anything to worry about. Ever."  
  
He gives her a questioning look. "Why? 'J you get a hysterectomy?"  
  
She rolls her eyes. "I'm not human anymore, Spike. My body doesn't function like a regular woman's. Which means no more bloating, no more mood swings, no more cramps, and no more bleeding for five days straight."  
  
"Well, that's a relief," he says, then adds, "for you, too, of course."  
  
"Isn't it? I suppose the only drawback is not being able to have children. But I mean, now that I'm with *you*..."  
  
"It wouldn't have been able to happen anyway," he finishes. "That bother you?"  
  
She shrugs. "Not really. There *are* perks to being sterile, you know."  
  
"Such as?"  
  
She grins. "Well, for one, you don't have to worry about birth control. No having to stop because there's no protection. You can have sex anytime... anywhere..."  
  
"Is that so." He looks over at her, sees that she's got that glint of seduction in her eyes. 'She's a bloody walking orgasm,' he thinks amusedly.  
  
"Yes, it is," she says, voice reaching that mischievous, sexy note of hers. "Like say, in a car, spur of the moment, on the side of the highway. Sound enticing?"  
  
"I'd have to say yes," he replies. "*Very* enticing."  
  
"Good." She touches his thigh with her palm. "Now pull over. I'm horny."  
  
Spike needs no further prompting. He steers the car into the shadow of an underpass and turns the engine off. Anya's on him in a second flat, covering his face with kisses as he pushes her back over into the passenger seat and reaches for the reclining lever. He pulls it and the seat falls to a gentle incline; she lays back with it, wrapping her arms around his neck as he moves on top of her. His mouth is all over her throat, his hands working at the buttons on her shirt to bare more of her skin to him. She slides the duster off his shoulders but leaves his ebony t-shirt on; 'This is going to be a quickie,' she thinks, glancing out the window at the passing traffic.  
  
Spike pulls his pants down just far enough to free himself from the restraints of black denim and waits for Anya to finish getting her capris out of the way.   
  
"Spike," she breathes as she puts her feet up on the dashboard.  
  
"What..." he asks, climbing between her legs.  
  
"Let's do something different."  
  
He pulls back and looks at her. "Uh... in case you haven't noticed, Anya, we're in a soddin' car."  
  
"It doesn't take up space," she tells him, grinning at his expression. "I want you to talk dirty to me."  
  
A delighted smirk spreads across Spike's face. "Ahhh," he says. He likes the sound of this. "So Demon Girl wants a tongue lashing."  
  
"We did the tongue lashing yesterday. I want the words that are inappropriate for use in public." She reaches down and runs a hand over his groin. "Come on, Fang Boy. Talk me up."  
  
His smirk broadens as one of her legs bends around his wiry hips and pulls him into her; he thrusts forward to get himself deeper.   
  
"Mmmmm..."  
  
Spike starts to move slowly back and forth, pushing his hips against her to create that goddess-blessed friction they both love so much. His lips brush across her ear, he bites the lobe teasingly and then whispers, "You are so hot, Anya, so fucking hot. Hotter than any other woman I've been with."  
  
She smiles and grasps the back of his neck. "Excellent start."   
  
"I know," he says, then runs his tongue over her jugular, feeling her pulse quicken. "I want to taste every inch of your body." He licks along her jaw. "Every..." His tongue is on her ear again. "Single..." It skims over her lips. "Inch."   
  
Anya opens her mouth and lets Spike slip his tongue in, flooding her tastebuds with a cool, palatable tinge of smoke and blood. In the few weeks since they started up the physical aspect of their relationship, they've shared hundreds of kisses, but Anya still can't get over how refined Spike's technique is. He's passionate, consuming, ravaging, tender, all at once; wet and open-mouthed without being sloppy, calculated without being mechanical. He's intricate, just the way she likes it.  
  
Spike takes his lips away from hers and looks at her with that evil smirk on his face, increasing the pressure of his thrusts the slightest bit. She whimpers at him; he knows she wants it harder, but her wanting dirty talk has put him in one of his more uncooperative moods.  
  
"You can do better than that, Demon Girl," he drawls. "Make some noise for me."  
  
She moans louder, digging her fingers into his back for effect. "Yessss..."  
  
He arches into the stinging of her nails, enjoying the sweet sadism of it. "Eh, it's getting there," he says as he surpresses a groan with a mock tone of unsatisfaction.  
  
"Yeah? Well so am I," Anya tells him. Her words are punctuated with bursts of heavy breath. "Keep talking..."  
  
Spike runs one hand up her naked leg, fingertips barely grazing the skin. The other hand pulls the thin blue strap of her bra down her arm, his mouth following to lap and nibble at her exposed flesh. "I'm gonna make you burn inside," he purrs. His teeth nip the spot where her shoulder and neck come together. "And I'm gonna keep you burning until you beg me to stop. And then you're gonna come so hard they'll hear you screaming back in Sunnyhell." The hand that was on her thigh moves higher, over her hippbone and between them, pressing against her with a delicious determination.   
  
"Oh, God!" Anya cries out. 'This is working,' she thinks. 'This is definitely working.'  
  
Spike is beginning to find it difficult to keep himself under control; Anya's demon is like a magnet to his, her sounds of pleasure are pushing him even closer to vamping out or having an orgasm-- maybe both. He grits his teeth and keeps moving on her, voice strained as he growls into her ear, "That's it, luv, let me hear how good I make you feel."  
  
She closes her arms around his shoulders and kisses him hard, hissing his name into his mouth. "Sssspiiiike."  
He returns her ravaging affections, the vibrations of her moans echoing back through her own lips. "God, you're so... unnnhhh... you're so good..." His voice catches in his throat as her fingers tangle in his bleached hair and pull his face to her neck.  
  
"Hurt me," she gasps, eyes flashing with an inhuman need. She's close now, perched on the edge. "Finish me."   
  
She hears him let out a rumble of approval, then feels the skin on his face turn hard and bumpy. He may not be able to drink from her, but he sure as hell can still bite her. His razorblade fangs hover over her tender flesh for just a second before plunging in.   
  
Anya lets out a scream of fiery pleasure and searing pain as blood and orgasm well up and spill from her body. Her muscles throb and strain, nails digging deeper into Spike's back as he removes his fangs from her neck and roars the intensity of his own release. The drops of demon blood that managed to find their way to his tongue leave a powerful, bitter taste in his mouth that dissipates only after he slides out of game face and out of Anya's warm body.   
  
Neither of them speak for a few minutes as they come down and haphazardly pull their clothes back on. Anya adjusts the seat so it's upright again, then turns to Spike, who by now is back in the driver's seat.  
  
"Remember last night when we got into that name-calling fight?" she asks, wiping the last of the blood from her neck. "And I said we could have ended up beating the hell out of each other, and you said that or *screwing* the hell out of each other?"  
  
"Yeah," he replies, throwing her a sideways grin as he puts the keys in the ignition. "Why?"  
  
"Well," she says, "I think we just did."  
  
TBC... 


	5. Checking In

A/N: Sorry this update's taken so long. I've been incredibly distracted by a million different things. Like, say, the evilness of Sleeper with it's Spankya teaser. That was just *cold*! If I was a guy, it would have given me total blue balls ;O) Also, I'm gonna be a biyatch and beg for a little more feedback. I like to have an idea of what's working and what's not. If you read this fic, drop me a line. Abuse me, praise me, whatever. Communication is what I crave! If you're not up to leaving a review, e-mail me-- indiechick5@aol.com. Thanks :O)  
  
Dedication: To Nathan Schulte and everything he could have been. Nate~ the UE class of 2004 will not be the same without you. Rest in peace.  
  
*Weep not for the memories...*  
-- Sarah McLachlan, 'I Will Remember You'  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It's only another four hours of driving before Anya and Spike decide to call it quits again. This time, however, it's not for a rough romp on the side of the road; it's because they-- finally-- have stumbled upon civilization.  
  
"Oh, thank *God*," Anya groans as an unrecognizable skyline appears above the monotonous cornfields. "I was beginning to think we were trapped in a redneck Twilight Zone. I would have had to start calling you 'Uncle Spike' if we ever wanted to have sex again."  
  
"Kinky," Spike comments, shooting her a sideways glance. "Though you know I'd prefer 'Daddy'."  
  
Anya lets out a short laugh, then stops herself and frowns. "May I just ask what it is with you evil penis-toters being so preoccupied with having your lovers call you 'Daddy'? What kind of a sick, misogynistic power trip is that?"  
  
Spike rolls his eyes. "Feminists," he mutters. "It was a joke, woman, and we're just going to leave it at that. I don't feel like getting into a cross-gender pissing contest over it."   
  
He's learned enough over the past couple months to know that delving into male-female power issues with Anya is pointless and redundant. Sparring verbally with her can be amusing, but ultimately it gets irritating, paradoxical, and often strays far from the original point at hand. Occasionally it leads to fierce and frantic lovemaking, i.e. earlier today, but that is not by any means a regular occurrance.   
  
'Too bad for me,' Spike thinks sardonically, squinting into the horizon. "What city d'you reckon this is?"  
  
A temporarily mollified Anya shrugs as she consults the road map Spike scared out of the hotel clerk. "As far as I can tell, we're somewhere in the middle of Indiana." She pauses, looks out the window at an indecipherably faded exit sign, and then frowns back down at the map. "Although due to the poor quality of road markers around here, we could just as easily be in Texas."  
  
He shakes his head and sighs. "I hope you're kidding."  
  
"So do I," she says. "Being lost in the Midwest is not at the top of my wish-list as of right now. Well, at least it wouldn't be if I *had* a wish-list."  
  
"Nor mine, pet. The blood there's a bit too spicy for my tastes, if you know what I mean."  
  
"Yes, I know. I did some vengeance work there about six years ago. It's all gay cowboys and women with mullets and--" she shudders "jackrabbits. Scarier than the Hellmouth if you ask me."  
  
"I thought gay cowboys and jackrabbits were the same thing," Spike deadpans, shooting her a smart-ass look.  
  
"No, actually they're quite diff-- oh." She gets it. "Another joke. Haha."  
  
"*I* thought it was funny," he says.  
  
"Oh, it was, sweetie," she tells him with a tone of mock patronization. "Just not to me."  
  
**************************************  
  
They reach the town less then ten minutes later. It's not as big as it seemed from farther away, just a few buildings that look to be around 10 or 11 stories high and a square mile or so of tightly-packed blocks of stores and apartments. The people walking the sidewalks look mostly lower middle class, with the exception of the sporadic black-suited businessman coming in or out of one of the buildings. The streets are wide and packed with cars and cabs; traffic is slow and frantic at the same time, typical of a jaggedly populated city like this. Anya's willing to bet the demon scene here is booming.  
  
There are two hotels in the city to pick from: one's a Best Western, the other is a Holiday Inn. They opt for the Holiday Inn, figuring they'll splurge a little and stay a couple nights. They're far enough away now, after all, and where else are they going to go?   
  
It's three o'clock in the afternoon, but it seems sunset has been started prematurely by a thick band of storm clouds that rolled into town with the two refugee blondes. They park the DeSoto in the shadows of the homogeneous landscaping and make it into the lobby just as the clouds open and a steady drizzle begins.  
  
Spike does the routine checking in, registering with a knowing smirk at Anya under the name Mr. and Mrs. DeMon, then hands Anya the key to their room. He runs back out to the car to grab her duffel bag and his blood while she heads to the third floor, pointedly ignoring the lewd stares of the teenage bell boys who seem a little too fascinated with her rain-soaked form.  
  
Anya opens the door of room 306 and sighs her relief. There's not a roach in sight and the maroon carpet covers the *entire* floor; it is also without the suspicious white stains that were so obscenely obvious on the carpet of the Incest-- er, *Windcrest*-- Inn. She shuts the door, sets her purse down next to the closet, and walks over to the bed.   
  
"Nice to see the springs don't creak," she says to herself as she sits down on it. She glances around contentedly, glad to be somewhere that bears even the tiniest bit of resemblance to a normal home.   
  
'Wonderful,' she thinks. 'Only four days out of the Dale and I'm already travel-weary.'  
  
She sits idly for a few moments, contemplating what exactly that means. She's not homesick or anything tragic like that, she's sure of it. She doesn't miss the crypt or the town, she only feels a slight pang at the thought of the shop. And to her great relief, she doesn't feel any regret for leaving the last shreds of proximity to Xander behind. She'd been concerned for awhile that despite what she and Spike have going for them, there'd always be a gaping void in her where Xander had been. Thankfully, she realizes, that void is nowhere near the size she feared it would be. Anya guesses she's just not enjoying the constant driving and the tension that's been rearing its ugly head between her and Spike. Sure, they've had their moments of relief from it, like yesterday with all the laughing, but it seems like too much is hanging over their heads for them to really cut loose. There's something still tethering them to the Hellmouth.  
  
Anya's train of thought is de-railed as Spike opens the door to the room and tosses her bag in. She looks up, starting slightly, and has to give an inward laugh as she sees that he's drenched from head to toe and dripping water everywhere, his hair all wild and curly from the gel being rained out.  
  
"Christ, there's a bloody deluge outside," he grunts, setting his bag of blood next to Anya's purse. "Hope your duffel's waterproof."  
  
Anya raises an eyebow. "Well, it's obvious that *you're* not."  
  
"Very funny," he says, stripping off his duster. "And just for that, I'm changing in the bathroom instead of letting you see my gorgeous, glistening body."  
  
"Oh God, no," Anya says, feigning horror. "Please, don't take away my naked Spike priveleges."  
  
He grins. "Maybe if you're a good little demon..."  
  
"Me, good? I don't think so."  
  
Spike laughs. "Naughty, just the way I like 'em." He peels his shirt off, keeping his eyes on her.  
  
"Oh stop it," she tells him. "Your charm is wasted at the moment. I just remembered I have to call Tara, and I can't have you parading around like a Chippendale's dancer while I'm trying to talk to her."  
  
He snorts, a disgusted expression playing across his brow. "I'll not be compared to those *ponces*. You know my moves are completely superior to theirs." He emphasizes his point with a slight sway of his hips.  
  
"Is *that* your sexy dance?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.  
  
He starts to nod, then catches himself, drawing up his shoulders. "I *told* you already, Anya. I have no dance."  
  
And with that he turns and walks into the bathroom.  
  
******************************************  
  
"I'm sorry, sir, we don't carry mummy's hands anymore. Really? Well, I guess if you can't find one anywhere else, we could probably special-order one for you. Okay. No, thank *you*. Have a good day."  
  
Tara hangs up the phone behind the counter of the Magic Box with a curious expression on her face. 'That's the third person in the last week who's called for a mummy's hand,' she thinks, not able to recall one single spell or charm they're neccesary for. 'Maybe there's some kind of ancient Egypt convention in town or something.'  
  
She shrugs to herself, glancing up at the clock on the wall, and sees that it's almost time to close for lunch. A flurry of butterflies begins to stir in her stomach; she and Willow are meeting for coffee at the Espresso Pump in twenty minutes. They're getting together under the guise that they need to discuss Buffy and Xander, but she knows the subtext is screaming "date".  
  
She feels a little guilty thinking about how this could be another beginning for her and Willow when there's more pressing matters at hand. Like, say, the issue of Spike and Anya being forced to leave Sunnydale because their ex-lovers have suddenly come down with extreme jealousy complexes. She shakes her head, remembering the looks on their faces when she'd told them they'd have to fight or leave. Anya'd looked so scared and Spike had just looked so... lost. She hopes she never has to break news like that to people she cares about again.  
  
Tara pulls herself back to the present and starts to lock up the register and the display case behind the counter. She's just about to turn the key when a sudden ring from the phone causes her to give a start. Normally, she would let the machine take the call so close to lunch, but she kind of feels like stalling right now. She crosses to the counter and picks up the reciever.  
  
"Hello, you've reached the Magic Box, how may I help you?"  
  
"Tara?" asks the voice on the other end of the line.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"It's Anya."  
  
Tara's face brightens into a smile. "Oh, hey, sweetie! How are things going?"  
  
"All right. We're somewhere in Indiana at the moment, and it's raining cats and dogs. But not literally. That would be a little frightening."  
  
Tara chuckles. "Yeah, it would. How are you and Spike doing?"  
  
"Pretty well, thanks. We had sex in the car today. I've never done that before. How about you?"  
  
She can feel herself blushing. "Um... w-well, never in a *car*... but there *was* th-this time--"  
  
"No, no," Anya interrupts. "I meant how are things with you and Willow?"  
  
"Oh!" she exclaims. Her blush deepens. "Th-they're getting better. Thanks for asking."  
  
"No problem. Now, if you'd like to continue with your 'never-in-a-car-but... story, I wouldn't object."  
  
"Um, that's okay. It's really not that interesting."  
  
Anya gives an audible shrug. "If you say so."  
  
"So," Tara says, changing the subject. "Do you have enough money? I deposited a check for you yesterday."  
  
"We haven't been to a bank yet, but we'll probably be going out tonight so I'll get some more then."   
  
There's a slight pause then, and Tara can just barely hear Spike's voice in the background. A soft scuffling sound betrays the fact that Anya's put her hand over the mouthpiece; Tara is able to make out Spike saying something about "our insane ex-es" and Anya replying that she hasn't asked yet. Another scuffling sound, and she's back on the line.  
  
"Sorry, Spike doesn't know how to behave when people are on the phone."  
  
Tara bites back a laugh. "That's all right."  
  
"Yeah. So, anyway, how are things... you know... *there*?"  
  
She switches ears and sighs. "Well, Buffy and Xander haven't calmed down much. They're still bent out of shape. Willow and I are actually starting to wonder if maybe someone's done something to them. We're meeting a few minutes to talk about it, as a matter of fact."  
  
"Oh." Anya's voice is ambiguous. "So we should still stay away for awhile?"  
  
Tara nods needlessly. "Probably. But as soon as we figure out what's going on-- if *anything-- I'll let you know. Okay?"  
  
"All right. Thank you."  
  
"No problem, sweetie."  
  
Another pause, then Anya says, "Well, I'll let you go now. I wouldn't want you to be late for your date."  
  
"Oh, it's not a date," Tara tells her. "It's a meeting-type thing."  
  
"Don't be ridiculous," Anya says. "It's a date. Enjoy yourself; don't try and resist if Willow puts the moves on you. And remember what you told me in the shop a while ago-- everyone needs someone."  
  
She smiles. "I will, thanks. I hope you and Spike stay safe and happy."  
  
"You, too, Tara. Good-bye."  
  
"Bye."  
  
Tara hangs up the phone, feeling strangely even. 'Demon wisdom,' she thinks. 'Beautiful thing.'  
  
  
**********************************  
  
  
Anya puts the phone back in its cradle and looks over at Spike, standing in the doorway of the bathroom. "Looks like we'll be on our trip for another week at least."  
  
He cocks his brow. "That a good thing or a bad thing?"  
  
Anya smiles. "I think it's whatever we want to make it."  
  
  
***********************************  
  
TBC... 


End file.
